


Scars

by potentiality_26



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2609972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentiality_26/pseuds/potentiality_26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Porthos and Aramis wanted me to see you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Athos seemed sufficiently dazed that d’Artagnan wondered if they hadn’t in fact deposited him on d’Artagnan’s doorstep, knocked, and ran.</em>
</p><p>Athos' shot leaves a scar.  He and d'Artagnan have different ways of looking at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=2520814#cmt2520814). Apologies if the ending seems… abrupt. Fading to black is not my greatest skill.

When Aramis removed d’Artagnan’s stitches, he tutted and made disappointed noises all the way through. “Next time,” he said emphatically, “no one will do this but me.”

“Next time?” d’Artagnan repeated.

That garnered odd looks from every quarter: Aramis, hovering at d’Artagnan’s chest level, raised a brow; Porthos, perched on the edge of the table, looked both startled and amused; Athos, shoulder resting on the wall, arms folded over his chest, stared at d’Artagnan with in a manner that shook him utterly but which he couldn’t begin to read.

D’Artagnan coughed. “I mean- I know that there will be a next time, I just- it probably won’t be like that.”

“You mean shot by one of us and forced to seek assistance elsewhere?” Athos’ eyes had fixed themselves to the floor, but d’Artagnan didn’t need to see his face or know him as well as the others did to sense a storm brewing.

Aramis, however, merely rolled his eyes. “Hopefully not.”

Porthos reached out and patted d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “You’re pretty well stuck with us, young pup,” he said.

“Hopefully so,” d’Artagnan murmured under his breath. Porthos and Aramis, already wrapped up in each other as they made their way out, didn’t seem to hear, but d’Artagnan felt Athos’ eyes on him.

*   *   *

That night, d’Artagnan was alone in his new rooms at the garrison. There was a knock at the door and d’Artagnan was surprised to find Athos- a bottle in his hand- on the other side. Athos waved it. “That’s for you.”

“Is there anything left in it?” d’Artagnan asked without thinking.

The door closed behind Athos and he rested his free hand on the wall next to d’Artagnan’s head. “I haven’t been drinking,” he said. “Porthos and Aramis wanted me to see you.”

Athos seemed sufficiently dazed that d’Artagnan wondered if they hadn’t in fact deposited him on d’Artagnan’s doorstep, knocked, and ran. He believed Athos about the drinking, though. Athos was close enough for d’Artagnan to feel his breath, and that certainly supported the claim. For one thing, he couldn’t smell wine. For another, while Aramis and Porthos- and d’Artagnan himself, come to that- grew more tactile when they were drunk, Athos became more distant. He would ruminate in a corner, rarely smiling, hardly talking, certainly never touching. He would crawl home rather than ask for help.  

And it was true that Athos had been drinking less of late. D’Artagnan and everyone else who cared about him would have been more pleased about this development had it not seemed that instead of not drinking because he had finally made peace with his demons, Athos was not drinking because it was a new way for him to punish himself.

It was so strange. In the first days- or perhaps it had only been hours- after Milady de Winter departed, Athos had been as light as d’Artagnan had ever seen him. He was still quiet, still serious, but a burden had obviously been lifted.   But all too soon, he had gone downhill again, and d’Artagnan didn’t know what was in his mind. That morning though- when Aramis removed the stitches- had been the worst d’Artagnan had yet seen him. He wondered why constantly, but knew he could never begin to guess.

D’Artagnan took the bottle. With anyone else, he would offer to share the wine and hope to get his answers that way. But this was Athos, so d’Artagnan thanked him and put it the cupboard. “Have a seat,” he said. D’Artagnan had a table, but as yet no chairs, so the choices were sitting on the table, sitting on the bed, and sitting on the floor. D'Artagnan dismissed the first as not conducive to a serious conversation, the second as too likely to send his mind in a direction he had no wish for it to go, and ultimately sat on the floor, back against the wall.  Athos did the same.  “Why did they want you to come and see me?” d'Artagnan asked when he had.

“I’d been… preoccupied.”

“With?”

“With you, of course.” After this incredible statement, Athos was silent for a time. He met d’Artagnan’s eyes at last, somehow shyly. “May I- may I see it?”

It took d’Artagnan a moment to guess what ‘it’ was. D’Artagnan didn’t say ‘you saw it only this morning,’ knowing such a thing would only shut Athos down again. And it wasn’t as though he himself hadn’t looked at it almost a dozen times since that morning, never quite sure why he did. Was he checking that it was still there? He pulled his shirt over his head and did everything he could to keep his breath regular as Athos’ eyes slipped over his skin.

It wasn’t like this with Aramis. Even when d’Artagnan was half naked and Aramis was flirting like he was considering it as an alternate career path, d’Artagnan's skin never burned as it did when Athos was anywhere near him. He felt Athos’ gaze all too keenly; it was somehow tangible to him, almost a touch, a caress. He bit his lip, very aware of Athos' shoulder against his.   

“That will leave quite a scar,” Athos remarked.

“Yes.”

“Your first?”

“Not my first scar, no.”

“But your first…” Athos let out a breath in a sigh, “as a musketeer.”

“Yes.” Athos seemed to have descended into an even darker mood than usual, and d’Artagnan wanted more than anything to bring him out of it. “That is part of what I bargained for, you know.”

“But I do not believe you ‘bargained’ for it to be at my hand.”

“Actually, I did.”

Athos flat out stared at d’Artagnan at that, and d’Artagnan sighed himself. He had a desire to pull his shirt back on, to have that extra layer between himself and Athos while he said this, but he worried it might undermine his point of he did so.  

He merely sat up straighter and set his jaw. “I mean, not what happened specifically, but…” He searched for another way to explain. “I actually have quite a few scars. Working on a farm is more hazardous than you’d think.”

Looking oddly transfixed, Athos nodded. His face was almost unbearably close.

“My father always taught me that scars were nothing to ashamed of, because they all meant something. Most of mine mean that I did something stupid. But not this one. This one means that I trust you. With anything. To do anything. I would never have agreed to a plan that required you to shoot me if I didn’t, and that is exactly why I wanted to be a Musketeer in the first place. I love this scar.” He pressed his forehead to Athos’. “I love this scar.”

He wasn’t expecting Athos to kiss him, but with the two of them that close he probably should have been. D’Artagnan went utterly still for a moment, trying to process Athos’ lips on top of his, trying to figure out if he’d missed heat- missed want- in Athos’ eyes as many times as it suddenly seemed he had. If the man he’d labeled in his mind as utterly untouchable was actually here, now, touching him. Kissing him.

Athos drew back, eyes shuttering. “Forgive me.”

“I will,” d’Artagnan said immediately, fingers clutching at Athos’ jacket collar to stay his physical withdrawal. The inevitable emotional one was another manner, but d’Artagnan had every intention of fighting to keep Athos with him. “I will forgive you- if you don’t stop.”

Athos stilled.

D’Artagnan used it to drag him closer, pressing his face to Athos’ cheek. “Please. Don’t stop,” he whispered.

He held his breath in the ensuing beat of silence, and then Athos turned his face and caught d’Artagnan’s mouth. The kiss was slow and wet and long, and when Athos withdrew- only enough to rest his forehead against d’Artagnan’s again- they were both panting. D’Artagnan didn’t want to disrupt the moment- didn’t want to shatter whatever peace was currently between them- but he felt he had to speak.

“I’ve been trying to figure out if you- if you’ve been angry.  With me.”

“Not angry- and certainly not with you.” Athos took hold of d’Artagnan’s hands, breaking his grip gently, but he didn’t try to leave. “I'm... tired.” Very deliberately, he raised one of d’Artagnan’s hands and kissed the wrist softly. “Of hurting the people I love.” He repeated the process with d’Artagnan’s other wrist.

D’Artagnan stared at him. “Do you? Love me?”

Athos held his eyes. “I will not cause you to doubt it again, if I can help it.” He released one of d’Artagnan’s hands to reach down, fingertips brushing d’Artagnan’s chest. “May I?” he asked, yet again.

Helplessly, d’Artagnan nodded, his mind still on the first thing Athos had said. It wasn’t that he doubted Athos' sincerity- in that moment it was utterly impossible to do so- but he did think that Athos perhaps underestimated how aloof he could be. It struck d’Artagnan that it was pure happenstance that they’d made it even this far. Athos’ hand slid down d’Artagnan’s side, seeming to strike sparks on his skin, and d’Artagnan’s mouth caught up with his brain. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I don’t,” Athos said, simply.

“I…” For a while, D’Artagnan didn’t know how to reply. Then Athos’ hand settled over the scar and it seemed to d’Artagnan that that was exactly where Athos’ hand belonged. Then what to say was obvious: “I trust you.”

Athos kissed him again.  


End file.
